Cable News Smackdown

Olbermann has a horse who broke a leg. I hate these kind of stories. It will have to be "put down." It's a completely disheartening tale.

Faux Noise has filed suit to stop it. They're flashing their "pro life" cred. Don't kill this horse, they say. The Terry Schiavo contingent gears up. And any cockamamie notion has its full day in court.

So lawyers from MSNBC and the fascist folly channel square off over equestrian equality. I go from a parking lot somewhere and here comes one of the Faux folk. He's in a bright orange jumpsuit and I'm thinking, he seems just like ordinary folk. And I remember, the guards at the death camps were mostly just your average Wermacht warriors with bad knees disqualifying them from the Eastern Front.

Red Roadster

I arrive in my little blue auto in front of a row of one-story stores. The district is clean if uninspiring, like me. I go through a walkway bounded by more shops to an open courtyard. Back here is an industrial sector where they build products. Some guys wander about in no hurry and a woman waits at a desk. I have no idea what they make, but they must ship it out because there is a truck waiting over by the rear exit to the wide parking area.

I go see someone named Beaumont. Are you Beaumont? Yes. Hi, Beaumont! We shake hands. He agrees to transfer to me for valuable consideration one each sporty small red roadster. Gee, thanks, Beaumont!

I leave to go back to high school. (In my dreams I carry along the same consciousness always but my outer being is obscure.) I next return to the shopping district.

Hey, the roadster, my roadster, it's gone! Where is my roadster? I better go see Beaumont right quick now.

I go back to the industrial area. Different folks are loitering, moving about in no hurry. I say to one of them, hey, can you point me to Beaumont? No, he says. I ask again, some other one, who says, no, but maybe that one knows. He points at a desk, and a lady is talking with a gent there. I'll wait. Meanwhile I look around for Beaumont. He sold me his roadster, I say to no one in particular, and now it's gone. I left it up front and it's gone now.

Oh, hey, wait a minute. I remember now. I drove the roadster to high school! It's not Beaumont's fault, it's mine! Of course, if I drove to high school, then I didn't leave the red roadster here, and that would explain why I didn't find it when I looked here.

Sorry, Beaumont! I say. But nobody pays any attention, and nobody is Beaumont anyway. 

Now I must find the red roadster. It must be over by high school, but I don't remember where. I must've parked close. I mean, why take the roadster to high school if you're going to park far away? 

I must start on one side and work myself in concentric squares ever wider until I find it. That's the ticket.

I think, hey, wait a minute. Whatever became of the blue sedan I had this morning when I went after the red roadster from Beaumont? Better worry about that in good time. First I better find the red roadster.

Let me see, I'll start on one side of the high school. I'll park here then.

Wait a minute.

What's this I'm driving?